


Eagles Fly - A Round Robin For Lys

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: F/M, Round Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-03
Updated: 2006-02-03
Packaged: 2018-11-10 22:17:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: 15 authors have created a round robin to honour the memory of Lys.





	Eagles Fly - A Round Robin For Lys

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Eagles Fly - A Round Robin For Lys

## Eagles Fly - A Round Robin For Lys

  
by New Ride Forever  


Author's Notes: The story is a mix of het and gen. All segments rated G except for one which is clearly marked NC-17.

Story Notes: In loving memory of Lys. 

* * *

Part 1 by Elizabeth Mc  
  
"Eagles fly, Ray," Benton Fraser said as he leaned his head back against the passenger seat of the GTO, rubbing his eyes at the same time.  
  
"Yeah, I heard rumors about that," Ray Kowalski responded as he continued to stare at the apartment building across the street.  
  
Around them, the night hung heavy and cold. Even inside the relative warmth of their metal and chrome shelter, Fraser felt a chill through the window glass.  
  
"Yes, of course, what I mean to say is that they migrate. Not all eagles, of course."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"But, most. They migrate for food, for warmth, for companionship. They use rising air to give them speed and lift."  
  
"That's really fascinating there, Fraser...not. Now you want to tell me why we're talking about eagles?"  
  
"I don't know, Ray, I suppose because we are going to be here for another three hours and I thought you might find the subject interesting."  
  
"I don't."  
  
"Well, all right then, perhaps you could recommend a topic."  
  
Ray turned in his seat, rubbing a hand over his blond, gelled hair. "Okay, I got a topic for you, Fraser. We've been sitting in this car for three days waiting for Manny Heistman to show up so we can take him down for all those store break-ins downtown and all I've gotten from you is heavy sighs and stupid conversations like, like this eagle thing. Now, you want to tell me what's really going on because you're not talking in a big way here."  
  
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."  
  
"And I'm just as sure you do. So, come on, Fraser, spill. Tell me what's going on in that Mountie brain of yours."  
  
"I assure you, Ray, I've just been making conversation."  
  
"That ain't buddies, Fraser. Keeping stuff from me."  
  
Agitation building at Ray's insistence, Fraser sat up straighter, then straightened his Stetson where it sat on the dash.  
  
"I am not keeping anything from you."  
  
"You always do that. I can't keep anything from you. Oh, no, you're like a dog with a, uh, big," Ray held his hands apart to illustrate. "A big..."  
  
"Bone?" Fraser ventured.  
  
"A mailman, a mailman in his sights," Ray yelled. "But, you, you clam up like a, uh, uh, clam when it's you."  
  
Fraser sighed. He looked at his friend and partner and realized he had no choice. Ray would badger him unmercifully until he finally confessed. And, of course, he knew that Ray only wanted to help.  
  
Still, the conversation would have to wait. Pushing open the passenger side door, Fraser said, "Mr. Heistman has arrived."  
  
Heistman walked quickly with his head down and his face buried inside the collar of a leather jacket. With both hands plunged into the pockets of the coat and his eyes planted on the ground he seemed oblivious to their surveillance.  
  
Fraser recognized the jacket and the size and shape of the man. Well over six feet, lanky and solid, Heistman was easy to spot even without a good facial view.  
  
Fraser heard Ray's feet land on the pavement behind him as he walked across the darkened street hoping Heistman would not detect his approach. Fraser reached the sidewalk just as Heistman peered up from the cocoon of his coat. Fraser had dressed in blue jeans with a pullover sweater and his own worn, leather jacket so he was surprised when Heistman bolted at seeing him.  
  
"Hold it. Police," Ray yelled from behind him as Fraser started giving chase.  
  
He heard Ray pounding behind him as they followed Heistman into a nearby alley. Fraser already knew the man was caught, however, Heistman was just realizing it. He had run into an alley with no exit, only a ten foot concrete wall at the end, that even with his substantial height, Heistman wouldn't be able to climb.  
  
"Hold it right there, Heistman, you're under arrest," Ray said as they reached the mouth of the alley.  
  
Their suspect was standing between two open trash bins. In order to use them for escape, Heistman would need to close one, climb on top of it and then climb over the wall. With Ray armed and approaching, he had no time.  
  
"On your knees," Ray ordered. "Hands clasped behind your neck."  
  
Heistman hesitated.  
  
"Now," Ray yelled.  
  
Manny Heistman followed orders. After using a gun in the commission of four convenience store robberies in downtown Chicago, he surrendered without incident.  
  
Ray cuffed him, then searched him, finding a nine-millimeter Browning tucked into his jacket pocket. Ray glanced back at Fraser when he found the weapon and Fraser knew they were both glad that Heistman hadn't chosen to fire it. When a backup cruiser arrived, Ray turned the prisoner over to them.   
  
Heistman hadn't spoken a single word, other than to acknowledge his Miranda Rights.  
  
As Fraser and Ray walked back to the GTO, Ray said, "Ya know, one of these days you're going to get yourself killed."  
  
"Well, I am a police officer, Ray. That possibility always exists."  
  
"No, you don't. No getting philosoph...philosophi...waxing poetic, Fraser. You went after Heistman, without me, while I was calling for backup. That is not smart. He's an armed robber, meaning Weapons R Us with him."  
  
"We couldn't allow him to escape, Ray."  
  
"I didn't say that. Did I say that? No, what I said was, you got to follow procedure."  
  
Fraser stopped before opening his door. He looked across the top of the car seeing the worry in his partner's face.  
  
"Understood," he said.  
  
Ray slid behind the wheel and started the engine before he said, "That does not get you off the hook on telling me what's wrong."  
  
Part 2 by Janice R. Sager  
  
"Francesca!"  
  
The diminutive brunette glanced up from the computer she was busy working on \- or trying to work on anyway - and rolled her eyes. "Now what?" she muttered irritably as she scooted her chair back. Rising for the fourth time in less than an hour, she glanced at the clock and made her way across the bullpen to where her brother sat trapped behind a desk of his own, slowly driving everyone around him crazy.  
  
Only three more hours, she told herself, and then realized that getting off work didn't mean she could escape. She still had to drive her brother home and put up with his side-seat driving the whole way, but despite it all nothing could put a damper on her day now.  
  
"What are you grinning at?" her brother demanded as she sashayed up to his desk.  
  
"Ray and Benton finally nabbed that sleaze-ball Heistman," she answered, propping her hip on her brother's desk and smacking her gum - for no other reason than because she knew it annoyed him. Ah, the joys of working with one's brother.  
  
"Oh god!" Ray rolled his eyes and buried his face in his hands. "Don't tell me. Benny's taking you out to make up for the last date you finagled him into that got ruined when he took off after that mugger, right? Which was a date to make up for the one that got ruined by the purse snatcher, which was to make up for the one that . . . What happened to the one before that?"  
  
"A little boy lost his cat." Tagging along while Diefenbaker grumbled about tracking the kitten had been a lot of fun.  
  
"You're setting yourself up for a major fall, you know that don't you." He shook his head and used his one good hand to hunt and peck the keyboard in front of him. "He's never going to see you as anything but my little sister. This is a mercy date - nothing more."  
  
She popped her gum again and grinned wider. Mercy dates didn't end with a soul-shatteringly tender kiss like they'd shared when she'd dropped him off at the consulate last time.  
  
"Whatever." She shrugged, refusing to get into an argument with her brother. "What'd you want? I got work to do too, you know."  
  
"I need a notebook I left in the car. It's in the glove compartment."  
  
"Ray!" she whined irritably, tossing her hands in the air. It was the third time he'd sent her to car to get something he'd forgotten!  
  
"Yeah, yeah, yeah . . ." He waved her complaint aside. "Just go get it. It's got a bunch of phone numbers I need to get this report finished and Welsh wants it today. I can't leave until it's done. Hey!" He suddenly glanced up with a grin. "Maybe I'll get to ruin your date this time instead of Benny!"  
  
"You do and, so help me Ray, I'll wrap your shiny new Riv around a telephone pole!" Frannie growled before spinning on her high heels to march back to her desk and get her coat. It was cold and rainy outside and she was going to ruin another pair of shoes, she just knew it!  
  
Ray grinned after her retreating form, knowing the threat to be empty - that didn't mean she wouldn't find some other more appropriate manner to get back at him if she thought he was wrecking her plans on purpose... Oh but she'd definitely inherited the Vecchio imagination when it came to getting even for perceived wrongs. He'd rather not test her, and knew perfectly well he didn't have to. He continued to grin as he turned his attention back to the computer, knowing Benny would screw it up again without any help from him.  
  
Sooner or later his sister had to get tired of it, right?  
  
* * *  
  
"This is a no parking zone, Ray," Ben pointed out even as Kowalski pulled the GTO to the curb as close to a telephone pole as possible and shut off the engine.  
  
"Drives you crazy, doesn't it?" Ray grinned and then turned to his partner with a more serious look. "Now give, 'cause we ain't moving from here until you tell me what's going on."  
  
Ben frowned irritably, knowing Ray was purposely breaking the law here just to get under his skin. "There's nothing wrong Ray," he repeated himself firmly. "Why won't you believe me?"  
  
"Oh, let's see . . ." Ray leaned his head back and stared up at the roof of the car as he lifted his hands to begin ticking off reasons. "One - you forgot the sacred hat in my car the other day. Two - you failed to hold the door for Old Lady Thompson at the station this morning. Three - Diefenbaker isn't talking to you. Four - "  
  
" - I've been a little distracted," Ben conceded, and frowned at nothing in particular through the front windshield. "It's nothing."  
  
"Nothing," Ray echoed. "'Nothing' is going to get you killed the next time you take off after someone like Manny Heistman, Fraser. You were in no position to defend yourself if he'd pulled that gun. Now spill, or you're going to be paying one heck of a fine when the meter maid finally catches me sitting here."  
  
Ben sighed, knowing he was defeated. It might be Ray's choice to park illegally, but he would feel compelled to pay any fine incurred simply because it was a direct result of the other man's worry for him. "It's just . . ." He sighed again, thinking this was just stupid. "Dreams, Ray," he blurted it out. "I've been having a lot of very vivid dreams lately."  
  
"Nightmares, you mean?" his friend asked with a concerned frown.  
  
"No," he denied readily, and then had to correct himself. He simply couldn't lie about it. "Well, a few. For the most part they're actually quite pleasant. Largely memories from my childhood and time with my grandparents."  
  
"But not all of them."  
  
"No, not all." he agreed and bent his head to scratch at an eyebrow. "It's not the dreams themselves that have me distracted, Ray," he admitted, glancing up. "It's how vivid and real they are."  
  
"Sounds like a good thing to me," Ray shrugged. "Probably just bonked your head a little too hard in that scuffle you had with Keller last week. Hard head or not, concussions can do funny things. You don't look like they're keeping you up at night."  
  
"They're not." He shook his head, even as he remembered a particularly gruesome nightmare that had sent him flying from the bed just last night. It was hardly typical and not worth mentioning. He frowned as he noted a patrol car drive right past them without stopping to give them a ticket. "Can we go now, Ray? I've answered your question. Sitting here is driving me more crazy than the dreams are and we still have all the paper work for this case to file before I can get ready for my date with Francesca."  
  
Ray glanced at his companion in mild surprise. "You sound like you're looking forward to it."  
  
"Why not?" Ben asked and frowned out the front window again as it began to rain again. "She's a lot more intelligent than you and your brother give her credit for."  
  
Ray grinned broadly as he started the car and checked his rear view mirrors. "Sure she is. That's why you keep sabotaging these dates she insists trapping you into."  
  
"She's not trapping me into anything, Ray. And I'm not . . ." He sighed and shook his head as Ray only grinned wider. "Never mind." What was the use? Both Rays were going to believe what they wanted to believe - while Ben was busy just trying to figure out what he wanted.  
  
* * *  
  
Damn, Frannie cursed silently to herself as the rain started to come down in earnest while she was wrestling with the keys in her hand. She was going to look like a drowned rat when she got back inside! If Benton came in and saw her like this, she was going to kill her brother!  
  
She was so busy cursing him - and the rain - and the keys - that she didn't hear the man who appeared out of the misty shadows behind her. A muscular arm suddenly trapped her against a large male chest while his free hand slapped a chloroform drenched handkerchief across her face. Nails fought to rake the arm that held her, and delicate but oh so deadly stilettos sought to stab his feet and shins, but it did no good. Her muffled scream and helpless struggles ended all too soon as oblivion dragged her under and wrapped her in its gentle cocoon . . .  
  
Part 3 by Mapu  
  
Ben followed Ray Kowalski through the doors into the bullpen, greeting several of the officers scattered around the noisy room but his eyes scanned the room for one officer in particular. For a moment his gaze was arrested by the scene at Detective Huey's desk, the detective sat rubbing his forehead as though in pain while he interviewed the three people seated across the desk from him. It wasn't actually Huey who'd momentarily captured Ben's attention but rather the interviewees, each of them spoke rapidly in excited high-pitched tones, while wearing tall cone shaped hats apparently made of blue metal foil. Ben removed his Stetson self-consciously and hurried away. He looked around and was a little disappointed to find that Francesca was not in the room.  
  
Kowalski stopped at Vecchio's desk and the two Rays nodded a greeting, each still obviously a little uncertain about the other. Ben still hoped that given time they would come to be friends. The two men actually shared a great many important characteristics . . . of course the two men also differed on a number of others.  
  
"You got that case review on Heistman?" Kowalski asked Vecchio.  
  
Vecchio shook his head. "It's on Frannie's desk, she was finishing it up. I think it's done."  
  
"Um, thanks." Kowalski went to the desk and sorted through the neat stacks. Ben frowned at the messy condition he left the desk in.  
  
"Ray, where is Francesca?"  
  
A slight frown crossed Ray's face. "Don't know, Benny. I sent her down to the car to get my notebook but that was nearly half an hour ago. I guess she must have gotten distracted again. I wish she'd get a move on, I need my notes."  
  
"Huh," Fraser muttered. It didn't seem like something Francesca would do. She could be astoundingly chatty and social; so much so that it made Ben's head spin at times but she was at her heart was a very caring soul. She wouldn't have kept her still recovering brother waiting so long for something he really needed.  
  
Something about Francesca's absence felt wrong and trusting his instincts Benton decided it was something that needed to be investigated.  
  
"Excuse me, Ray, I'll be right back," Fraser said putting on his Stetson and preparing to leave.  
  
Ray smiled at him "No problem, Benny."  
  
As Ben left he heard Kowalski ask, "Where's he running to now?"  
  
And Ray's chuckled response. "Not to . . . away. He's getting out of here before Frannie catches up with him."  
  
"Smart move."  
  
* * *  
  
The night air was steadily growing colder and although the earlier rain had stopped the thick clouds above the city haze promised more was on the way. Even in the deeply shadowed car park it wasn't difficult to spot Vecchio's distinctive car. The Riv stood out even more than Kowalski's GTO did. Ben slowed as he approached the car. To a causal observer nothing looked out of place but Benton was distinctly aware that something was not right. The first thing he noticed was Ray's keys. They lay on the ground directly below the driver's door, as though someone had been about to unlock the car but had dropped the keys instead. Ben's blood chilled, not someone. Francesca.  
  
Near to the front wheel, dirtied by the rain and city grime, lay a folded section of light coloured cloth. Ben knelt toward it and sniffed, pulling back sharply when he recognized the scent of chloroform. Fear gripped his heart in a vice. Almost franticly he scanned the area looking for signs of more direct violence and closed his eyes in relief when he saw none. Whatever had happened to Francesca it didn't appear to have been fatal.  
  
Ben felt as though he'd aged another twenty years as he climbed to his feet. Something caught his eye. Caught under the Riv's wiper blade was a small tuff of green and pink. Ben leaned close to examine it, recognizing the five-petal pink flowers as Rosa Carolina or more commonly the Carolina Rose. An American native wildflower, but it was unusual to see blooms this late in the year. Everything Benton had every read about the species flashed through his mind but his breath caught when he recalled the flowers meaning: Warning, love is dangerous.  
  
A metallic object glinted faintly amongst the foliage in the low light. Changing his angle he was able to make it out. It was a bullet. A copper-tipped 9mm unfired round rested in obscene malevolence among the delicate, soft petals of the roses. He took a step away from the crime scene and ran for the building, rushing to get to Ray. Francesca was in trouble, every moment mattered and whoever it was they'd gone to a great deal of trouble to take her.  
  
* * *  
  
Francesca woke up in stages. The first thing she became aware of was the cold, hard and gritty surface beneath her cheek, and then she felt the pain. Her head throbbed with an excruciatingly loud pounding and her reeling senses made her feel nauseous. It wasn't until she tried to roll onto her back that she realized her hands had been bound behind her back and her feet tied at the ankles. Tugging and struggling at the ropes did nothing to free her and only served to make her headache worse.  
  
She stopped and rested for a while and thought through her predicament. Obviously her struggle against her attacker hadn't gone well, and there were no obvious clues as to where she was now or how long she'd been gone. Did Ben or her family even know she was missing yet? If they did then it was a guarantee that they would be pulling out all the stops to find her. A comforting image of Ben's face showing the focused intensity that came over him when he worked a problem came to Francesca and she relaxed a little. Among Ben, her brother and Kowalski there was not the slightest doubt in her mind that she would be found. There were all incredibly good cops and even if her brother did drive her crazy with annoyance she trusted each of them implicitly. Still, she wasn't a civilian anymore either, there had to be something she could do to help herself. Ray might treat her as though she was helpless, but she - and Ben - knew differently.  
  
It took a great deal of effort, a few scrapes and a couple of broken nails to wedge her arms into a position where she could slip her legs through and bring her arms to the front. As soon as they were she began to worry at the knots with her teeth. By the time she got her hands free her jaw ached nearly as much as her head. Untying her legs was much easier and at last she got to her feet.  
  
They'd taken her shoes! Her brand new, expensive, designer shoes were gone. The thought made her blood boil. Kidnapping her and holding her in this filthy basement was bad enough, but that was just plain rude. Rubbing her sore and badly abraded wrists helped soothe them and calmed her anger a little. Unfortunately, being free of her bonds didn't help her get free of the room. She began a methodical search of her surroundings, looking for any way out.  
  
"Urgh!" Francesca shuddered and swiped frantically at the sticky spider's web that had gotten caught in her hair. She tried very hard to stop her imagination from feeling eight sinister legs tangled in her hair and shuddered again. She couldn't help it, spiders were just creepy. Why on earth would any animal need eight legs?  
  
"They could have picked up a bit if they knew they were going to have company," she muttered into the silence.  
  
Examining the surroundings really hadn't taken her very long. There were no windows and the only door stood at the top of a short flight of steps and was very solid and very much locked. It was definitely a basement, one that hadn't been used in a long time judging by the dust and cobwebs but it had obviously been used as a storage room at one point. Along one wall were the remnants of shelving.  
  
Looking closely at the few remaining wall mounts Francesca saw that several were loose. Taking a good grip on the exposed wood, she pulled. At first nothing happened, then she felt a slight give accompanied by a soft grating noise. Taking a deep breath, Frannie put her foot on the wall and used all her body weight to assist her. The bolt came free with a squeal and Francesca found her self on her backside several feet from the wall, the bolt and wood in her hand.  
  
Standing she rubbed at her newly bruised area. "Ow." The wall mount was made of thick metal and surprisingly heavy. It looked like a small tire-iron. Swinging the bolt around experimentally, Frannie decided that it would make a reasonably good weapon if things got desperate enough. She tucked it into the back of her pants, where it was hidden by her blouse but where she could get at it quickly. Frannie sat on the bottom step, resting her head against the wall to wait.  
  
When the door to her prison finally opened it caught Francesca by surprise. She stood and spun to face the man who stood at the top step. Although she hadn't seen his face at the time, Frannie knew this was the same man that had attacked her.  
  
"Who are you and what do you want with me?" she demanded.  
  
The man simply smiled. "Who I am doesn't matter, and what makes you think this is about you?"  
  
Francesca thought about how she could use her only weapon . . . until the man pulled out his gun. Pointing the weapon at her he slowly descended the stairs.  
  
"As it happens, I have very little personal interest in you. This is a job, so be warned. If you give me too much trouble I cut my losses and simply kill you. Now, we need to discuss the rules." The man's voice was hard and cold.  
  
Part 4 by Vertigomac  
  
Kowalski looked up from his report to see Vecchio scanning the squad room.  
  
Again.  
  
Vecchio, he kept doing that. Hyper-vigilance, Fraser had said, a little sadly, and Kowalski kinda understood. Hell, he'd been Under himself, right? He'd nearly lost himself in Vecchio's life and only a romp though frozen Canada for two weeks with Fraser cleared him up. Though they never found the Hand of Franklin (it turned out to be a. . . whatchmacallit . . . a metaphor), he had come back with a clear head, some cool Intuit carvings and the ability to walk in snowshoes.  
  
But it seemed Vecchio hadn't found himself in his little runaway with the Stella. When Fraser and Kowalski returned, Vecchio was already there, newly reinstated and typing everyone's file with one finger. But a quieter man, according to Fraser. This Vecchio now carried three weapons. This Vecchio looked up every five minutes and coldly looked around the room. This Vecchio checked under Riv #3 every morning and evening for car bombs.  
  
Not so much for himself, he had calmly said one night while expertly eyeing the driveshaft. But it would upset his family if he were blown to bits.  
  
Kowalski twirled a carving from his desk and went back to his report. What he and Frase really needed to do was to get Vecchio drunk some night. It'd be good for him.  
  
Vecchio stretched his aching side and shoulder as gently and unobviously as possible. As long as Welsh believed that Ray was healing well, he was as good as partnered with Kowalski - and their unofficial third partner, Fraser.  
  
Not that Vecchio didn't hear the grumbles. No, with the invisibility of the invalid, Ray heard quite a lot. It wasn't fair, said the whispers, that Kowalski stays and gets the Mountie. It wasn't right, the complaints went, that Vecchio can't just stay retired. No, he has to pop up after two weeks in Florida and take a job from an able bodied cop.  
  
Ray grimaced and hit the keys with more force than necessary. Like Fraser was department issue and could be passed around like a rental car! Like Kowalski hadn't worked here for a year already.  
  
Like he himself just popped in from a little vacation and didn't spend a year in Pure Hell.  
  
Vecchio shoved those thoughts back and scanned the room for Frannie. Again.  
  
Small bits of worry filtered in.  
  
"Hey Kowalski?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I'm gonna see where Frannie got to. Maybe get coffee while I'm up. Want anything?"  
  
"Naw, I'm good." Kowalski put down the carving he was fiddling with, an Inuit totem of a wolf with paw raised as if pleading for doughnuts. "Ya know," he said, "Frannie just got sidetracked."  
  
"Yeah, probably." It wasn't easy shrugging with one working shoulder, but Vecchio managed it. He had just hoisted himself from his chair when a blur of red shot across the room and into Welsh's office.  
  
In unison, both Rays blinked at the door.  
  
"Was that Benny runn . . ."  
  
"At top speed. What the fu . . ."  
  
Welsh's door banged open and he came out with a pale looking Mountie.  
  
"Kowalski! Take Big Red here and a couple of uniforms! He'll fill you in."  
  
Welsh turned to Vecchio and with a gentleness Ray did not like the sound of at all said, "You, in my office. Now."  
  
Part 5 by Lucysmom Vecchio stood and watched as Kowalski and Fraser hurried out of the room, Fraser hissing words into Kowalski's lowered head. Vecchio stood rooted in place until the two men disappeared from his sight.  
  
"Now, Detective." Welsh said firmly, "Please."  
  
The hairs on Vecchio's arm stood up at the totally uncharacteristic plea. He made his body respond as he turned toward Welsh's office and walked the short but interminably long distance to what he instinctively knew was bad news.  
  
Kowalski had to jog to keep up with Fraser. He was still processing the truncated version of what Fraser had found when he had gone to the Riv to look for Frannie. They met up with the uniforms who were placing crime scene tape around the car. After they finished that task, one of them began photographing all the evidence. Ray put on gloves and picked up Vecchio's keys and bagged them. He did likewise with the chloroform-soaked cloth. The small bunch of flowers and the bullet also went into separate bags. He told the uniforms to canvass the area and see if there were any witnesses to whatever the heck had happened to Frannie.  
  
Fraser was being unusually quiet and Kowalski said, just to hear some noise, "They left flowers and a bullet. Since I don't think there is a Guns and Roses concert in town, what the heck do they mean?"  
  
Fraser quietly explained the significance of the wild roses and their meaning of love being dangerous in the language of flowers. Fraser looked at the flowers. "Whoever has Francesca is sending us a warning. This was no random attack. Francesca was taken because someone she loves or someone who loves her is being warned." he said.  
  
Kowalski replied "Or someone who loves her took her. Has she mentioned being involved with anyone recently?"  
  
Fraser shook his head. "I know that you think she is always trying to make me feel jealous, but she has not mentioned anyone to me recently. In fact I . . ."  
  
Fraser let his response die off. He looked so upset that Ray K knew that if he pushed anymore the Mountie would retreat totally into himself. Ray clapped his friend on the back in a subdued and . purely platonic way and said. " Fraser I swear on my turtle's life that we will find Frannie and the scuzzbag that did this."  
  
Fraser looked at Ray and smiled wanly. He said stonily. " I swear on my father's grave that if anything has happened to Francesca. The miscreant who has harmed her will rue the day. And then I will kill him."  
  
Ray did not doubt it.  
  
Part 6 by Amanda  
  
Fraser remembered the dream he'd had last night and shuddered. In his mind's eye, he saw the pink Carolina Rose he'd pulled off the windshield turn to a white rose, petals tightly furled around itself, perfect and unblemished, the one he'd gotten one Mother's Day in church. He had dreamt of this white rose, this herald of death and loss, last night. He still remembered with a terrible ache in his heart the question he had asked his grandmother all those years ago: "Everyone else got a red rose, Grandma. Why did I get a white one?"  
  
She looked him straight in the eye and replied gently, "Some say the red rose is a sign of everlasting love, and that white roses are a sign of a love even stronger than death."  
  
Even stronger than death. He'd never been one to have premonitions, but he felt distinctly uneasy.  
  
Fraser's reverie was interrupted as a foreboding figure in black, his very carriage feral and menacing, swept out of the station doors. He had to look again before he realized it was Ray Vecchio, the ends of his black overcoat swirling in time with his strides as he stormed toward them.  
  
Ray's face was ashen when he spoke. "They took my sister. My little sister. I'm supposed to protect her, and here I am sending her out on my dumb little step-and-fetch-it errands." He leaned forward, propping his good hand on his thigh, and for a moment Fraser wondered if Ray was about to be ill, but Ray took a deep breath, then another, and righted himself, turning to Fraser with an expectant look.  
  
"But it's all gonna be OK, because your Mountie super-senses have already solved the case, right? You licked some telltale stain on the ground and now you know where they took her. Right?" His green eyes searched Fraser's, looking for confirmation, an anchor, something to hold on to.  
  
Fraser could not hold Ray's gaze, so desperate and angry and self-accusing all at once, and dropped his eyes to the wet pavement.  
  
"Well . . . unless the perpetrator was careless enough to leave a fingerprint on the bullet or keys, which I doubt, I'm afraid we don't have much to go on. As you know, the cloth and flowers wouldn't hold a print, and DNA analysis will take . . ."  
  
"Too long," Ray fumed.  
  
"Yes," Fraser agreed. "The rain has obscured any tracks the perpetrator might have made as he absconded with your sister. There is one thing . . ."  
  
"What?" Ray's hopes shot up again with the certainty that this once, when he needed Fraser's oddball tracking skills more than ever before in his life, his friend and partner would come through.  
  
"The cloth. Aside from the pungent odor of chloroform, there was . . ." He frowned, deep in thought. " . . . another scent intermingled with it, something like . . ."  
  
Vecchio came alive. "Like what, like what?"  
  
Fraser shook his head. "I'm not certain. A personal care product, perhaps, such as aftershave, or perhaps perfume, something heavily scented."  
  
Vecchio's face deflated like a spent gray balloon. "That's it? That's all you've got? Maybe you've forgotten this is my sister we're talking about!" Suddenly Ray had the lapel of Fraser's blue overcoat crumpled in his hand, and Fraser, in a distinctly unpleasant moment, realized just how intimidating Ray must have been as Armando Langoustini.  
  
Kowalski's hand was there a blink later, ripping Vecchio's hand from his lapel and stepping between them like a spiky-haired schoolmaster breaking up a playground tiff. "Hey! Hey! Easy with the menacing. Listen, we're all rattled. We care about her too. But beating up on Fraser here ain't going to solve squat."  
  
Vecchio released a long breath and stepped back. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm sorry."  
  
Kowalski looked up into the gathering gloom. "Okay then. Now, we need to figure out what we're gonna do. It's getting dark, it's starting to rain little ice balls. " He pointed at the solidifying whitish grains falling from the sky. "And so far we basically got nothin'. I say we go somewhere warm, we get something to eat, and we try and look at this logical-like. Nothin' clears your head like some grub in your stomach."  
  
Fraser nodded his approval and looked to Vecchio, who was still hesitating.  
  
Vecchio looked around at the rapidly falling darkness, then took out his cell phone. "I got a full charge. Welsh said he'd call the second there was anything."  
  
"All right then. Car's over here." Kowalski led the way to the Goat, thinking maybe this was the night to get Vecchio good and drunk.  
  
* * *  
  
It had seemed like an eternity since her kidnapper had given her his lecture, and Francesca was cold and hungry. And she really, really had to go to the bathroom.  
  
She went to the top step and banged on the door. "Hey! You up there! I demand that you give me my rights under the...uh...Gibraltar Convention! I demand that you let me use the facilities! I demand that you return my shoes! I demand that you provide me with food and water! I demand that . . ."  
  
Her tirade was cut short as the door opened, the bright light making her squint. It was a different man; he looked young, with sloppy dirty blonde hair and watery blue eyes, but he too had a gun, and it was pointed right between her eyes. Now he rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I demand that you shut up. If I give you that stuff, will you zip it until morning?"  
  
"Of course," Francesca said with a coquettish smile, beginning to hatch plans involving yelling and banging her shelf support to keep him up all night.  
  
"OK, you can go to the bathroom," he allowed. The man let her into the kitchen, herding her ahead of him with the gun. "Fer Chrissakes," he sighed, marching her through a nearly bare living room and down a hallway, "why did I ever agree to this? This is inhumane conditions, this is. Now," he said, pointing to a door, "you got five minutes, so make it count."  
  
Francesca slipped inside and shut the door, flicking on the light and the noisy fan. Oh, she looked a fright! Her makeup was all smeared, her face had a terrible grayish cast to it, and her hair was a rat's nest.  
  
She itched to clean herself up, but there were other more important things at stake at the moment. She looked around and saw a tiny window between the toilet and the tub. Could she wriggle out of it? She smoothed her hands over her hips, measuring, and looked back to the window doubtfully. Maybe, just maybe. . . hopefully the noise of the fan would cover up any noise she made. She ran to the window and pulled, and after three heaves, the old paint around the window cracked and allowed the pane to ease upward, admitting a burst of cold air and sleet into the bathroom.  
  
It turned out that her hips were a non-issue, and the mental scolding she'd been giving herself about eating too much spumoni was all for nothing. Francesca couldn't get her shoulders through. She could get one out, but not the other, and no matter how she contorted herself, she could make no further progress.  
  
"Hurry up!" the guy said from outside, although he sounded slightly embarrassed. "It don't take all day to go."  
  
"Um, just a minute, I'm almost done," she called hurriedly. She pulled herself back into the bathroom and used the toilet while she stared disconsolately at the window. So close, yet so far . . .  
  
She took some pink toilet paper off the roll and was suddenly struck with an idea. "As Benton would say," she murmured to herself with a smile, "I am not without my resources." She checked and found that her emergency lipstick was still tucked in her bra where she always kept it. Quickly, she rolled off as much paper as she dared and scrawled on it in Maybelline Kissproof Rivetingly Red, "HELP HELP HELP FV!" She was tempted to add "FV LOVES BF," but realized she was just being silly.  
  
She stood up, flushed the toilet, and rolled the missive out of the window, clamping the window shut over the first few squares to ensure it would hold. There. At least she'd done something to try and get herself noticed. Knowing "her" men were on the case made her feel a lot better. She imagined Benton sniffing the Riv keys and running straight for her, her brother right behind him with his gun drawn, and Kowalski in his shiny black sports car tearing across eight lanes of traffic going the wrong way to reach her, all while coordinating backup on the radio with his free hand. They'd find her.  
  
However, maybe it was better that she wasn't able to see what they were doing at that exact moment.  
  
Part 7 by Rebecca  
  
Inside the dimly lit dive, Ben and the two Rays were crammed into a dingy booth in the darkest corner. Vecchio hunched over his glass and stared into the amber liquid. Kowalski was leaning back, sprawling a little staring blankly in the general direction of Ben. Dief had gotten one wiff of the bar's aroma and had steadfastly refused to come inside. Empty glasses littered the table all belonging to Ray and Ray. Ben still nursed the glass of water he had started with. The haze on glass killed any desire to keep hydrated.  
  
Each man was lost in his own thoughts.  
  
Kowalski ran his fingers through his hair. He tried to work through every thing running through his mind. This was a bad idea. Getting Vecchio drunk wasn't helping his mood. It wasn't helping find Frannie. God, Frannie. Even if she wasn't really his sister he felt a lot of big brotherly protectiveness toward her. She could be a big pain in the ass, but . . . There wasn't much to go on. How the hell were they going to find her? There wasn't even enough for Fraser to track and with this rain there would be even less of a trail. What was I thinking going to the bar? This was really stupid.  
  
Vecchio looked up briefly took another gulp of his drink and dropped his head back down. The several drinks hand only served strengthen the paranoia he had been living with since going deep under. Questions swirled. Had somebody thought this was a good way to get back of him? Was Frannie even still alive? Who was next? Maybe he should disappear. Maybe he shoulda never come back. Ma was going to kill him. What was he thinking making Frannie fetch and carry for him? He just wanted things back they way they were. Did Benny like hanging better with Kowalski then him? Why am I thinking about that and not thinking about Frannie? Who has Frannie? Where is Frannie? Why hasn't Fraser found anything yet? Why were they wasting time in this bar? Ray shook his head and took another drink.  
  
Ben looked between his two friends. Knowing them as well as he did, he could figure out a lot of what each of them was thinking. Ray was beating himself up over the fact that something had happened to Frannie, blaming himself. Ray was doubting himself and second guessing his choices. Ben had hoped that with time his two closest friends would become close themselves. Maybe not best friends, but not rivals either. He had hoped that they would both find shared footing in this world. Ben's thoughts turned inward. Was Frannie warm? Was she injured? An ache developed in his chest. They had just started really exploring what was between them. After being afraid to take that step for so long had he waited until it was too late? Had he really lost her? Ben shook his head and stood up.  
  
"I think we need to leave and regroup. This is counter-productive."  
  
Vecchio barely raised his head. "It's no use, Benny. We ain'tgonna find her."  
  
"Not if we just mope here in a bar." He looked at Kowalski. "Come on, Ray. Let's go, get you two sobered up and find Frannie. She is counting on us."  
  
Kowalski nodded. "Come on, Vecchio. Let's go and find that little sister of ours."  
  
* * *   
  
Frannie pulled a little at her restraints. That hulk who she had first met up with was back and not really happy his buddy had let her out. She rubbed her hip. He had been none too careful returning her to her prison and there were going to be marks.  
  
She heard the door open and someone come into the room over her head. The footsteps stopped at the basement door. Frannie heard a woman's voice.  
  
"And how is our guest doing?"  
  
Outside the bathroom window the rain melted the toilet paper and Frannie's note fell to the ground.  
  
Part 8 by Jean- NC17. Fraser/Francesca and Fraser/Thatcher  
  
It was crazy, as all dreams were wont to be.  
  
Ben was exhausted after talking over Francesca's disappearance with Vecchio and Kowalski. Four hours of desultory conversation in one of Chicago's rankest beer dives had produced nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. It was as if she had evaporated into thin air. The second, third and fourth hand smoke of the bar that Kowalski and Vecchio didn't seem to mind had given Fraser a rare but blinding headache and robbed him of most rational thought; if anything, he was a very rational man. Usually. Normally. If he was getting at least five hours a sleep a night.  
  
They were even less successful in trying to figure out the meaning of the sprigs of Rosa carolina: Warning: Love is dangerous. Dangerous for whom? One person, two, or who-the-hell knew how many more?  
  
Kowalski looked at the bullet that had been nestled among the flowers. "Too bad this ain't a silver bullet. . ." he snarled.  
  
"I don't understand, Ray," Benton squinted through the gloom.  
  
"Faggeddaboutit. Not important."  
  
Vecchio couldn't let it pass. "Well, Studley, it isn't your sister that someone nabbed."  
  
Fraser really didn't feel like being the referee in another Ray War skirmish.  
  
"Gentlemen, I feel we have reached a dead end for tonight. It does Francesca no good if we are thinking haphazardly. Would either of you drop me off at the Consulate? I am in sore need of a minimum of four hours sleep." That is what he told them. Privately, Benton was not looking forward to another night of nightmares without meaning.  
  
With much scraping of wooden chair legs away from the table and throwing down of several dollar bills by all, Vecchio drove Fraser back to the Consulate. No words were spoken; none were needed, albeit for slightly differing reasons.  
  
Dief greeted Fraser at the door with an inquiring, "Errrf?"  
  
"Sorry, Dief, nothing yet." He dragged himself back to his office/storage/bedroom. Ben could not bear another night of psychedelic dreamscapes - especially ones that would stink of stale cigarettes.  
  
Stripping down to his boxers and grabbing his towel, he made his way through the dark Consulate, through Inspector Thatcher's office, to her private bath. Turning the shower on hot, he stepped in and let the water cascade down his back. First with his back to the faucet as he stretched his hands to the tiled wall, then turning to bow his head, he let the steaming water relax his neck muscles. After five minutes, he used his Mountie issue soap to thoroughly shampoo his hair. A final scrub to rid his body of recalcitrant smoke odor, he stepped out and dried himself thoroughly.  
  
With practiced ease, he shook out his cot, braced the legs and threw a wrinkled sheet on it - last night's reminder of his disturbing dreams. A Hudson Bay blanket followed.  
  
Dief, hoping he finally would get a decent night's sleep, crawled on top between Ben's legs.  
  
He smelled her at first. A faint lemony scent.  
  
"Frase?"  
  
He turned to see Francesca standing by her desk in the 27th.  
  
"Benton?" she tentatively asked again.  
  
He wondered what her ploy would be today.  
  
"I was wondering if you would help me here. The paper for the Xerox machine is in the supply closet - top shelf, and you are the only one around tall enough to reach it for me."  
  
His heart began to pound. She had tried to get him into that closet before, but he had been too afraid of Ray to go with her. Now, her brother was off at a stake out, and not in any position to tell him to keep his Canadian hands off his sister. Benton Fraser, if anything, was a cautious man. Now, there was something soft and alluring about her.  
  
Fraser noted she was wearing a clinging pastel angora sweater with the Civilian Aide patch safety-pinned to her upper arm. A faint smile curved his lips. Leave it to Francesca to maintain CPD regulations yet remain her alluring self. The short leather skirt and three inch heels completed her ensemble.  
  
"Of course, Francesca. Perhaps, if you come with me, you can point out the correct box of paper needed." He had no idea where that came from. His own mouth, of course, but something was compelling him to be alone with her. He now looked at her with new eyes. She was lovely. Even in her high heeled shoes, she barely reached the height of his chin.  
  
She walked down the hall toward the supply closet with Benton following far enough behind to watch her ass seductively swing with each step. Oh, dear. His jeans were becoming uncomfortably tight. Do I really want to do this, he asked himself for a split second until they arrived at the closed supply room door at the same time.  
  
He opened the door for her, followed her inside and quickly shut the door. As fast as she grabbed for the light switch, he turned it off.  
  
"Benton?" Francesca was a bit dismayed.  
  
"Shhh." Fraser cautioned as he took her in his arms. Pulling her to him further caused jeans constriction. His head was swimming. He was running on instinct alone. His lips sought hers and her lips were very accessible with a tilt of her head. He brushed her lips once, twice, and with the third time he gently opened his mouth. She responded immediately to allow his tongue to enter.  
  
He slowly canvassed her entire mouth as she sucked his tongue. "Hmmm. You taste wonderful," he whispered between assaults on her mouth.  
  
"You're not bad either, Benton. I can still taste your bark tea." And how Francesca was enjoying his kissing. Necking in high school was never like this!  
  
They continued their oral tango as she raised her arms further up his shoulders and he lowered his hands until he was able to lift her sweater. The feel of her tight nipples in her bra was no problem for him. A quick twist of the bra clasp released her breasts into his hands. As he rubbed her breasts from below, up and over the nipples, she groaned in his mouth.  
  
He was lost in a world of her sexuality. He knew he would take her, here, in a broom closet. It didn't matter. He ducked his head and found an exposed nipple to suck on. He sucked and pulled it out to a point before doing the same to the other. His hands slid down her hips and under the short leather skirt.  
  
Benton Fraser, if anything, was a resourceful man. Tugging on the material of her thong, he stretched it enough to insert a finger into her moistness. There would be no need to remove the garment.  
  
He could feel Francesca lower her arms to stroke his crotch. As his fingers were stimulating her, she quickly unzipped his jeans to free his erection. Kissing. Stroking. Unbridled heat. He stooped slightly as she spread her legs and he finally had Francesca impaled on him.  
  
He grabbed her ass to fondle her and she jumped up to cross her legs around his hips. He was reeling with the feel of her. The heat of her. He slowly forced himself in and out of her as she groaned with emotion.  
  
"Ben. This is so good. Help me Benton. Help me," she whispered as he exploded within her and she contracted around him.  
  
"Fraser. FRASER."  
  
He was no longer in Francesca's arms, but in his cot. Inspector Thatcher was nudging his shoulder.  
  
"Fraser, you must get up. Your wolf is chewing on the sofa cushions in my office."  
  
"I'm sorry, Sir. I will attend to him in a moment. Right now I don't feel well."  
  
Her demeanor changed instantly from his commanding officer to someone else. Someone who seemed to care about him. She sat on the cot and noticed his brow was drenched with sweat. She gently wiped it with a corner of the rumpled sheet.  
  
"Do you have a fever?"  
  
He shook his head negatively and leaned into her ministrations, happy that she was aware of him in a different way than normal. She leaned down closer and he rolled over on his back. Gently and slowly she leaned into him until her lips brushed his. He reached up and lowered her on top of him.  
  
"Fraser, you may not have a fever, but I think what you really need is a good old fashioned Canadian roll in the hay."  
  
She got up before he could answer. If anything, Benton Fraser knew manna from heaven if it just dropped in his crotch, er, lap. Meg was quickly divesting herself of all clothing: the silk shell, the demure skirt, the slip, the bra, the panties, the shoes until she stood before him: Lovely. Demure. Wanting. He realized that ever since the day she arrived at the Consulate to replace Moffat, he wanted her. Wanted her so bad that his teeth ached.  
  
He reached out his arms and she slid into them silently. There was nothing stand-offish about this Meg Thatcher. She sought out his mouth and he quickly opened it. They shifted and writhed on his cot as their tongues escalated their need. Delicate touching. Smooth caressing. There was a silent discussion of who would be on top. Meg naturally assumed she should be, but Fraser disagreed. As he rolled her over, they fell out of the cot onto the floor. Neither noticed the change in elevation but Ben was now on top.  
  
Benton Fraser, if anything, was a courteous man. Situated between Meg's legs, he hesitated and asked, "May I?"  
  
"Benton, please!! Do it! Take me! And that's an order." Meg whispered.  
  
And he entered her, fully and deeply. Their tongues sped up their contact and hips moved in time to the tango they established. Ben knew they were both near.  
  
"Help me Ben!" Meg gasped. "Help!"  
  
And Fraser came within her as she climaxed.  
  
He remembered nothing for a long time. When he opened his eyes, he was alone on the floor and tangled in soggy sheets.  
  
"Well, well, well," Robert Fraser said as he stepped out of the shadows. He surveyed the disarray surrounding his son. "Quite a messy pickle you're in now, son."  
  
Benton was not at the moment a courteous man. "Dad, just for once I wish you would get out of my life."  
  
"Not quite yet, I'm afraid. Now you have to choose."  
  
"Choose? Choose what?"  
  
"They are now both missing; captured by the same person. I managed to help that process along."  
  
"How?" Benton was not in the mood for his father's blithering. "You're dead."  
  
"So I've been told. It wasn't easy to arrange it. The point is, I have put you into a pickle and now you must chose. Your superior or that fiery Italian spitfire? They both have asked for your help. You must choose! I want grandchildren. Now, run along and find them and choose."  
  
Fraser was going to disagree but if anything, he was a prudent man. It was futile to argue with a ghost, especially a stubborn one. His eyelids became heavier and as his father disappeared into the gloom of the room, he fell asleep again.  
  
The phone was insistent. Fraser could not ignore it any more. Rising from the floor and stuffing himself into a pair of jeans, he ran for the phone. The hall grandfather clock read 4:38.  
  
"Hello. Bonjour. Canadian Consulate. Consulate gnral du Canada," Fraser growled into the phone. Basically, he felt like shit; like he had been in relations with 20 women last night and had serviced them all.  
  
"Fraser, get your ass over to the 27th. We got a call about 3 a.m. that Thatcher is gone too." Welsh sounded angry.  
  
"Taken by the same unknown person or persons, sir?"  
  
"Apparently. Vecchio and Kowalski are coming in. I think Kowalski will be by to pick you up in ten minutes. Okay?"  
  
Part 9 by zzzaney  
  
Frannie had just about drifted off, when loud footsteps overhead roused her awake again. Her arms were numb and her shoulders ached. She'd been unable to get herself out of her restraints this time. To make matters worse, since she hadn't actually gone to the bathroom when given the chance and her bladder had given out what seemed like hours ago. Frannie couldn't remember being so miserable in her life. Where were her brother, Ben and Ray? They should have been here by now!  
  
The noise above her head continued. It actually sounded as if there was a fight happening! Frannie allowed herself to hope that the cavalry had arrived just as the door to the basement opened. The big man who'd tied her up again clomped down the stairs with someone thrown over his shoulder. Whoever it was fought for all they were worth before the man dropped his burden unceremoniously.  
  
"I should have killed you when you first woke up. Mess with me again and I will," he snarled before turning to Frannie and giving her a warning glare. Satisfied she was still as he'd left her, he stomped back up the stairs and disappeared.  
  
It took Frannie but a moment to realize who her new roommate was.  
  
"Thatcher! What are you doing here? Where's Ben?"  
  
Meg Thatcher was busy twisting herself about and managed to remove the gag from her mouth. "Ms. Vecchio? What's going on? Where are we?"  
  
Frannie's mouth dropped open "You don't know? Where's my brother? Didn't you come to rescue me?"  
  
Meg glared at Frannie before she took a deep breath and rammed her shoulder against the wall, dislocating it. She only allowed herself a slight whimper before contorting herself about to bring her arms around her body. In no time at all she had herself untied, then popped her shoulder back in place. Frannie winced for her as Meg came up behind her and untied her. "What all have you learned since you've been here?" Meg asked as she freed Frannie, then started walking around the basement intently scouring the walls. She seemed oblivious to the fact that she wore nothing but a silk pajama set. Frannie was a little annoyed that Meg hadn't answered any of her questions.   
  
"Not much. There are at least two men, Attila the Hun and a younger guy. I heard a woman's voice but I didn't see her. You can stop looking you know. If there was a way out of here I would have found it by now."  
  
Meg didn't acknowledge Frannie as she continued to move about the room, every once in a while crawling under a table, or trying to move shelves. She even listened at the top of the stairs and tried the door. It wasn't until after she'd found for herself that they were well and truly trapped that Meg turned back to her.  
  
"I hadn't heard from Fraser before I left work today. I just assumed he was with Kowalski or Vecchio since it was his day off. Next thing I know I'm waking up to a man hovering above my bed. He must have used chloroform. I recognized the odor. Luckily, I woke while still in the car and managed to make their job a little harder. Unfortunately I didn't see any road signs to indicate which direction we were heading in."  
  
Meg looked around the basement again. "We need to find something we can use a weapon."  
  
"I've already thought of that. Unfortunately He-Man took my . . ." Frannie's words came to a halt as the basement door opened and the big man came down the stairs, followed by a blond woman. Meg eyed the man's gun, realizing now wasn't the time to make a move. She turned her attention to the woman.  
  
"The two of you have put me into quite a quandary," She drawled as she looked both Meg and Frannie over from head to toe. "I really can't see what he sees in either of you. But no matter, you'll both have to die now regardless."  
  
"Who are you? What do you want with us?" Meg demanded in her most authoritative voice.  
  
The blond woman only smirked in response as if Meg were a child simply there to entertain her.  
  
"You won't get away with this, sleaze-bag. Right now half the Chicago police force is looking for us, as well as the Mounties. It's only a matter of time before they find us and lock you away. And by the way, those shoes do not go with that outfit," Frannie finished smugly.  
  
"Hey," The big man snarled, "You don't disrespect Ms. Muld. . . "Before the man could finish, a loud gun shot rang out causing both Frannie and Meg to drop to the floor. After a moment of stunned silence, they both looked from the blond woman to the man laying dead before them.  
  
The blond woman stepped gingerly over the body while she kept her gun trained on the both of them. Picking up his weapon, she backed up the basement stairs. "Some people just don't know when to keep their mouth shut. You're both going to die. But whoever Dudley-Do-Right chooses as the one he loves best, well," She smirked again as she opened the door behind her, "that one will meet a special end." The door slammed and both women were trapped again, this time with a corpse.  
  
* * *  
  
Ray and Ben ducked under the yellow police tape as they entered Meg Thatcher's apartment. Ray Vecchio was already there, staring out the window. He didn't turn to acknowledge either man.  
  
"Ray?" Ben asked as he stepped closer to his friend. Without looking at him, Ray held out a plastic police evidence baggie with a piece of paper inside. Kowalski stepped up to Fraser's shoulder as Ben took the bag and looked at what appeared to be an old newspaper article. It took a full minute before the words registered in his brain.  
  
CAROLINE FRASER  
  
Wife of Sgt. Robert Fraser of the R.C.M.P. was found dead this morning by her husband . . .  
  
No suspects . . .  
  
Ben went numb inside as his heart stopped. Before he could think of something to say, an almost inhuman growl reached him.  
  
"You son-of-a-bitch. I thought it was me. I thought the mob had somehow found me and that's why they took Frannie. But this isn't about me, is it? It's about you. They took my baby sister because of you!" Ray lunged at Ben, slamming his fist into Ben's jaw before either Ben or Ray Kowalski could react.  
  
Part 10 by Ellen  
  
Ray Vecchio's hand hurt like hell. He was sitting on the stoop outside of Meg Thatcher's apartment building, rubbing his hand and thinking. He was so mad he wanted to hit something again despite his hand throbbing. His need to hit something barely overshadows his need to find his sister. Hearing footsteps, he looks up to see Fraser walk toward him. Waving him off, he says, "Don't. Don't say anything. I don't want to hear   
  
anything from you. All I want to do is leave here and find Frannie."  
  
"Ray. You're angry. I understand that anger," Fraser offers in a calm and patient voice.  
  
"I'm angry?" Ray yells, pushing himself up to stand in front of his friend. "You're damn right, I'm angry. Because of you, my sister is missing. Because of you, Meg Thatcher is missing. Why is it that when bad things happen, it all leads back to you?" Ray points his finger as he scowls.  
  
"Come on, Vecchio, that's not fair," Kowalski pipes in as he walks up to both men.  
  
Ray Kowalski looks from Fraser to Vecchio, noticing Fraser is not trying to defend himself. In fact, Fraser just stands there, his jaw red, his lip swelling, as a drop of blood trickles down his chin. Vecchio moves in closer to Fraser, shoving his finger in his face. Fraser just stands still, not moving a muscle. Kowalski moves in just in time to pull Vecchio away. "Leave him alone. Can't you see he's broke up about this?"  
  
Vecchio curses, and shrugs from Kowalski's grasp. "My sister, man. My baby sister is somewhere, and I can't help her."  
  
"Well, none of us can help her and Thatcher with you going maniac all over Fraser. Snap out of it."  
  
Ray Vecchio stares at his newest friend in front of him. He sees the worry in his eyes. Then Ray looks over at his best friend Fraser, and sees the blood on his chin, the dark circles under his eyes, and the look of total despair on his face.  
  
"Shit. Oh, man. What am I doing?" he cries out. "I . . . I . . ."  
  
"There's no need to apologize, Ray," Fraser replies.  
  
"I wasn't going to apologize. I'm just not going to hit you again like I wanted."  
  
"Oh. Well. Yes," Fraser stammers, and then turns to Kowalski, hoping to get him to help. Kowalski just grins.  
  
Fraser continues talking, bringing both men to attention after the awkward pause.  
  
"I'm afraid you are right in your perception of the situation. This does seem to be about me. And I don't quite know what to do about it. I think I am going to have to make a choice I don't want to make." Fraser turns quickly from them and walks away.  
  
Kowalski turns to Vecchio, hoping for some clarification to what Fraser just said. But he sees that Vecchio is still pissed and growling. He is about to ask what is on both of their minds, but Vecchio walks away, following Fraser.  
  
"Great. I've got one freaky Mountie talking in riddles and one pissed off Italian ready to throttle said Mountie. How the hell are we going to work together to find Frannie and Thatcher?" And then, because he is supposed to, he follows the two men back to the car.  
  
* * *  
  
The basement floor was cold and Frannie shivered once more. The small amount of light from the bulb hanging down from the ceiling allowed her to watch as Meg Thatcher investigated their basement prison. She was slightly surprised and secretly delighted that the first thing Meg did was find an old dirty cloth and to cover the corpse that was over by the door. But now Meg was continuing her search for a weapon or a way out of this place. Frannie snorts to her self, knowing there is nothing to find.  
  
"I told you there's nothing. Don't you think I tried that all ready?"  
  
Meg turns to her, frowns, and then resumes her search.  
  
"Sheesh. You'd think you could be friendlier, seeing as how we are in this together! But I guess not."  
  
Meg finally acknowledges her. "I don't have time for making friendships. I'm trying to get us out of here."  
  
"Yea, well, good luck. I all ready looked."  
  
"But I didn't. You might have missed something.  
  
Frannie began to say something, but smartly closed her mouth. Meg crosses over to her and sits down with a frustrated grunt.  
  
"There's no way out."  
  
"I told you that."  
  
"Hmm." Changing the subject, Meg asks, "How long have you been down here?"  
  
"I don't know. They grabbed me as I was getting something from my brother's car."  
  
"And now they have us both. Curious."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean? What do you know?"  
  
"It means we both have something in common."  
  
Frannie stares at her. She knows, but she doesn't want to say it.  
  
Meg says it for her. "Fraser. We both have a connection with Fraser."  
  
Frannie nods. Somehow, whenever she finds herself in trouble, it leads back to Fraser.  
  
"Does Fraze know that blonde bimbo out there?" Frannie asks.  
  
"I should think not." Meg answers too quickly.  
  
"She seems familiar to me in some way."  
  
"What way?" Meg demands.  
  
"Like I've seen here somewhere before. Recently."  
  
"Try to remember. It could be important."  
  
"Okay, okay, just back off a bit. I do better without you in my space."  
  
Meg moves back, and watches as Frannie closes her eyes to remember.  
  
"It was sometime earlier this week. At the precinct. In the hallway. I know I passed her in the hallway one day. I noticed her because she was wearing a yellow sweater. And the color did nothing for her complexion."  
  
Meg takes a deep breath before stopping Frannie in one of her long stories. "Francesca, you doing great. Take your time. What else do you remember about this woman?"  
  
"She was talking to someone. I remember now, because she turned away from me before I could check out the rest of her outfit, and she said something to the man next to her. It was that cute new detective that started last week." "Okay, this is important. Did the woman seem like she knew the detective, or was she just here reporting something to him?"  
  
Frannie opened her eyes at this question. She looked right up at Meg. And then she smiled as she answered.  
  
"She knew him. She had her arms all over him. That caught my eye, because he could do much better, you know. Why is a blonde bimbo fawning all over the cute young Detective Hottie." She pauses before asking, "You think he knows her?"  
  
"It's possible. It sure does make this even more curious." Meg sits down next to Frannie on the concrete floor. "We should get some rest. You try and remember more about this blonde woman."  
  
"Ms. Muld." Frannie interrupts.  
  
"Ms. who?"  
  
"Muld. That's what that dead creep called her before she shot him. It must be her name. That's why she killed him in cold blood right before our eyes."  
  
"Muld. Muld. "Meg chants, trying to sound it out. "Why does that name bother me?  
  
"Yea, it bothers me too. Like I heard it before. Muld." And as Frannie closes her eyes to try and sleep, she mumbles again. "Muld."  
  
And in unison, both women say softly to each other, "Maybe that's only part of the name."  
  
Part 11 by kayzer  
  
It seemed as though every ounce of their strength had been mysteriously sucked from their bodies as Frannie and Meg suddenly found themselves fast asleep, the man who looked down at them from the top of the stairs only saw that they were exhausted and sleeping peacefully, he left without disturbing them.  
  
In their dreams both women could see Robert Fraser clearly, standing in the middle of a desert, nothing but sand everywhere.  
  
"Who are you?" Frannie blinked as she glanced around and stood up.  
  
"Robert Fraser," he smiled broadly toward her as he rocked back on his heels, "Benton's father and this is just a dream you're having."  
  
"Why are we having the same dream?" Meg snapped as she glared toward the Sergeant in a relaxed stance, it was obvious she did not like him for some reason and they both felt it in the air surrounding them.  
  
"It makes things much easier," Robert glanced around, "besides all this I wanted to talk to both of you about Benton."  
  
A name echoed on the air "Muld, Muld, Muld," it seemed to come from nowhere and go swirling around them in the wind.  
  
"What dose Ben have to do with this?" Frannie sounded panicked. "Every time I get into trouble it leads back to him, one way or another, I'm not sure he's worth it." She spat angrily without thinking.  
  
"Oh," Robert hung his head, "I was hoping you'd feel differently."  
  
"What does her," that name echoed again drawing Meg's attention away from her conversation, "what dose our feeling have to do with anything? What do you want from us?"  
  
"Grand kids." Robert smiled broadly. "You both love Benton and he has feelings for the both of you," he glanced between them as that name echoed louder, "Now this will force him to decide which of you he wants to be with."  
  
"This is ridiculous. If that's even true, which I seriously doubt," Meg snapped as she moved away from him, "there is no way Benton would choose either of us under duress, he would find a neutral corner to wait in so neither of us would be harmed."  
  
"True enough." Robert frowned sharply. "But he will have to decide much sooner than you think."  
  
"I don't want him to be in that position." Frannie snapped. "He has to decide of his own accord in his own time."  
  
"I'm not getting any younger." Robert huffed. "And neither are you."  
  
Frannie let loose with a blithering of Italian profanities the dead Mountie seemed to understand as he stared toward her in shock.  
  
"OHHHHHHH," Meg screamed as the name echoed louder, "I hate that name," she held the sides of her head, "I hate this setting, couldn't you find something more appropriate for our meeting than this," she gestured around at the dunes of sand, "this sand box?"  
  
"It's perfectly suitable for getting the message across." Robert huffed and glared toward Frannie.  
  
"You know I don't think you are the one for Benton, a lady should never use such language to an elder."  
  
"You're the one who started it." Frannie spat angrily.  
  
"I want to wake up now," Meg snarled, "I don't want to hear about Mrs. Muld or see these damn dunes anymore."  
  
Frannie stared toward her for a moment as it slowly dawned on them. "Muld and dunes."  
  
"Muld, dunes, Muld, dunes, Muld, dunes," Meg chanted as she gazed toward Frannie.  
  
Frannie paused as she glanced around, "Muldune, that creep that shot Benton's Mother, Muldoon."  
  
"You're right." Meg stared toward Robert in shock. "Why didn't you just tell us his name?"  
  
"Can't take all the fun out of it for me now can you?" Robert sniffed and disappeared in the distance.  
  
Frannie and Meg suddenly woke up and whispered in unison, "Muldoon."  
  
* * *  
  
Knowing how angry his friends were at him, Fraser suggested they go to the Consulate. "Since this is about me and my mother's death," he paused as the subject still brought him great pain, "I suggest we go over my files and try to find out who was involved in that investigation."  
  
"Why don't we just go after Muldoon?" Vecchio snapped as he walked into Fraser's office. "I mean the guy is the one who killed your Mother, he's the one who almost killed you and put my career on ice while I coughed up that bullet, he's gotta be the one behind this."  
  
"I would love to just 'go after him' as you put it, Ray, but we can't." Fraser chewed upon his lip in an attempt to stop the bleeding as he pulled out a case file.  
  
"And why not?" Vecchio spat as he glared toward Fraser.  
  
"Because he's dead," Fraser sat a box of files on his desk, "he died in prison last month. In two days it will be exactly one month so we don't have a lot of time to find your sister or Inspector Thatcher, I believe whom ever is doing this will kill at least one of them on that date."  
  
Vecchio went pale and gulped hard, he hadn't expected Fraser to be so blunt and it pulled him from his doubtful rage.  
  
"So let's get into it." Kowlaski slapped his hands together and picked up a file. "What am I looking at?"  
  
Part 12 by M-A  
  
Vecchio put his head in his hands. "It's got to be someone close to him. Do we have anything on Muldoon's family?"  
  
Kowalski pawed the files in front of him and began to furiously flip pages.  
  
Fraser rubbed an eyebrow. "I know he was married," he finally said.  
  
"Ah ha!" Kowalski exclaimed, waving a sheet of paper. "He did have a wife!" He read further. "That's queer. She died a couple of months after your mom, Frase. Hey, there's a daughter, too."  
  
"Do you have a theory, Ray?" Fraser looked from one Ray to the other.  
  
"Call it a hunch, Fraser." Kowalski turned to the night shift civilian aide who occasionally filled in for Francesca. "Hey, Anna! Can you find out what happened to Mabel Muldoon? We need to know right now!"  
  
"I'm on it!"  
  
There was a flurry of clickity-clicks as she typed madly for a moment.  
  
The three men sat silently as they waited for an answer, each lost in their own thoughts, each fighting their own demons.  
  
"Suicide," Anna finally said.  
  
That brought a smug smile from Kowalski. "Can you get me the whereabouts of the daughter? Mary-Sue Muldoon?"  
  
Anna typed some more, but it took much less time. "Current address is unknown. She spent most of her childhood in group homes or foster car. At eighteen, she dropped off the radar, but she showed up a few years later in Winnipeg, where she was charged with solicitation."  
  
"Do we have a picture?" Vecchio asked.  
  
"Yeah, but it's about twenty-years old."  
  
"Get us a copy.  
  
* * *  
  
Thatcher paced back and forth for a long while, her silence aggravating Francesca, before she finally spoke. "Where'd you buy your shoes?"  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Your shoes. Are they cheap?"  
  
"Why?!"  
  
"We can use them as weapons! Next time the blonde bimbo comes, we can lob one of your shoes at her! If we're lucky, the heel will hold and we'll do some serious damage!"  
  
"Do you have any idea what I paid for these shoes?!"  
  
"Do you see any *other* weapon around here?"  
  
"Well, no, but why *my* shoes?"  
  
"Francesca, I'm wearing flats."  
  
"Oh. Right. Well, I can't throw."  
  
"I can."  
  
"Fine. Hmph. And Ray says that the way I dress is impractical!"  
  
Part 13 by Julia  
  
"I mean really, I'm not the one wearing silk pajamas!"  
  
"Ms. Vecchio, they snatched me from my bed. I was asleep, what should I be wearing? An evening gown? And why you see me wearing flats is beyond me. My feet are bare on this very, very cold cement floor. Why couldn't they have reached into my closet and gotten my slippers before they left with me. Some people are just so inconsiderate."  
  
"Kidnappers. Consideration. Don't usually go together."  
  
"As for dressing impractically, Ms. Vecchio where are your shoes? I assume from your clothing that you were kidnapped while at work? How could they kidnap you from a police station?"  
  
"What's with the first percent? Jeez!"  
  
First percent, thought Thatcher, what on earth? Oh yes, Ms. Vecchio was demonstrating her anxiety with malapropisms. She began again.  
  
"I am sorry, Ms. Vecchio..."  
  
"May as well call me Francesca. What should I call you?"  
  
"Meg, though few call me that. Sorry for all the questions, but I am an officer of the law and if we know each other's situations, it may lead us to why we are here and possibly even how we can escape."  
  
"Oh yes, escape! I have a weapon," she said as she pulled the wall mount from out of the back of her pants.  
  
"That's quite excellent thinking Francesca, you hold onto it, since you have a place to hide it. Where did you get it?"  
  
"From the wall. Here, I'll pull another one from the wall for you, while we talk. Then we'll both be armed."  
  
"That's a great idea, thanks. So, Francesca, your shoes?" led the Inspector.  
  
"They must have taken them before I woke up. I sure was wearing them before I went out in the rain to get Ray's notebook. They are $400 Farragamo three and half inch black spike heels. Of course, that's not what I paid for them. There's a lot I don't know, but I do know how to shop. But if I don't get them back somebody is paying."  
  
"Farragamos? Really? I had some once. I owned a pair of black Farragamo boots. I wonder what happened to them, well, actually, just one of them. Don't worry, somebody will pay, Francesca, I'll see to that, and I'm not just talking about your shoes. When were you taken?"  
  
"Ray gave me his keys and asked me to go out to get a notebook he left in his car. That was about 3:00 in the afternoon. I know because I was looking at the clock and thinking about the date I had in three hours. Then I woke up here."  
  
"You were drugged?"  
  
"I don't know about drugs. I was at Ray's car, just about to get the notebook he'd left in the glove compartment when the big guy comes up behind me and puts a rag over my mouth and nose. Then this delightful basement."  
  
"It sounds like chloroform; that's what they gave me, too. Interesting that you were taken at 3:00 PM and I was taken at approximately 3:00 AM. Wonder if it means anything? And it's curious how they could have taken you from the parking lot at the station. Whenever I've been there it's a pretty busy place, people coming and going and officers around."  
  
"Oh that's easy. A memo just came from the top brass Monday. Cops aren't supposed to smoke in the parking lot or even in their own cars in the parking lot anymore. It gives a bad impression to the killers and rapists to see cops smoking on police premises or something like that. They've even got rookies touring the parking lot looking for cops smoking in their parked personal cars. It just means cops leave the station to smoke, drive around. Talk about stupid . . ."  
  
"Yes, Francesca, I'm fully aware of inane police procedures. So if the cops were not smoking in the parking lot then where were all the rookies who were supposed to be looking for them?"  
  
"There was a fight in the holding cages. Six high school girls were fighting over a boy and everybody was called down there to break it up."  
  
"This blonde who has kidnapped us, you say you saw her at the station, with Detective Hottie, I believe?"  
  
"Yeah, she was probably there just to check me out. Which means she probably came to the Consulate, and your house, too, to check you out. And you're as gullible as Ben. His name isn't Detective Hottie, that's just what I call him. He's Detective Huffmann. He's just transferred from Vice."  
  
"I did order a pizza this week and my regular guy didn't deliver it. She was a woman. She was wearing a hat, but she could have been blonde and the build is right. Turnbull did also mention something about a replacement driver for UPS. Perhaps it was she."  
  
Then Meg asked, "You mentioned you had a date? With whom?"  
  
"He's not a suspect, Meg."  
  
"You know we have to rule out family and friends first."  
  
"My date was with Benton."  
  
"Oh. Our connection."  
  
"What about you, Meg? Did he ever date you? Did you want him to?"  
  
"Oh look what I found! A shoebox full of rubber duckies."  
  
"You're just finding that so you don't have to answer my questions."  
  
"Am not. It's ammunition. Remember, I'm an excellent thrower."  
  
With that, Francesca finished pulling the wall mount out of the wall, so each of them could be armed, in addition to the rubber duckies, should the opportunity present itself. Meg and Francesca were determined to make the opportunity present itself.  
  
* * *  
  
Ray dropped Vecchio at his house and had Fraser to himself. Something was bothering Fraser and if it affected the case, Ray would have to know, even if Fraser didn't want to talk.  
  
"So, Fraser, I know you don't want to talk about it, but I get the feeling something's up. What gives?"  
  
"I simply want to find the Inspector and Francesca." "Uh- huh, I know you do, but something's bugging you. Something you haven't told me about."  
  
"Love is dangerous."  
  
"Of course it is, but what's that got to do with the price of coffee at Starbucks?"  
  
"It's what a Carolina rose means in the language of flowers."  
  
"The language of flowers! Next you're going to tell me there's a math or calendar of flowers!"  
  
"Ray, you're a genius!" Fraser's eyes sparkled with excitement as they hardly had in days. "There is a calendar of flowers - tomorrow is the Carolina rose day - May 30."  
  
"What's the connection between your mother and the Carolina rose? Why did we find her obituary at Thatcher's apartment?"  
  
"Her name was Caroline, but I don't imagine she ever even saw one, as they do not grow in the far north. Love was dangerous for her, she . . ."  
  
"What about you, Frase, it seems like all this is about you. Is love dangerous for you? And how can we find out more about Mary-Sue Muldoon?"  
  
"We have a list of the foster families she lived with and the group homes, perhaps she's still in contact with someone from one of them," stated Fraser.  
  
* * *   
  
"Saskatoon PD. Missing persons. Farquarhar."  
  
"Reg, this is Ren Turnbull."  
  
"Ren! How've you been? Are coming back up north again soon?"  
  
Actually Reg, I'm calling purely on business, though I do hope to come back to see you soon. My superior officer Inspector Margaret Thatcher was kidnapped here in Chicago by Mary-Sue Muldoon. Another woman - not a Canadian -- was also kidnapped and the two kidnappings are likely connected. Muldoon has ties through family, but mostly the foster care system and family court system to Saskatoon. I have her history, what we know about. I'll fax it to you. Could you canvass her family and friends and foster families there please? And coordinate with me every, say two hours, as I will with you?"  
  
"Ren, you know I'll do it, but why aren't the Chicago cops calling?"  
  
"Reg, I dearly wish I knew," sighed Turnbull.  
  
* * *  
  
"OK, that's good, we'll have to involve Canadian cops, or Mounties or whatever, but they'll do it, right? Since they got Thatcher," queried Ray Kowalski, all business." So, Frase," Ray said more conversationally, "Tell me about these dreams you've been having. You started to tell me after the Heistman case, and I'm not forgetting about them until you are ready to talk to me about them."  
  
"It hardly seems like this is the time, but since you won't let go I suppose I'll have to tell you. Most recently, and I must beg you not to repeat this dream to Ray Vecchio, I dreamt I . . . um . . . was having physical relations with Francesca in . . . the storeroom at the 27th . Then in my dream Francesca became Inspector Thatcher and I had . . .relations with her as well, though not in the storeroom. Then I was told I must choose between the two women in the dream. The phone rang in reality and it was Lieutenant Welsh telling me that Inspector Thatcher had been kidnapped. Ray, this is all my fault. All my fault."  
  
"How is it your fault? Did you kidnap them? Do you control your dreams? OK, lemme ask something else you're going to hate, but how do really feel about Francseca and Thatcher? The dream said you'd have to choose between them, and I know you lay stock by your dreams, so what do you think you'll do?" Ray didn't say anything for a long moment, he just looked at Fraser, who looked consumed by guilt.  
  
"You're like a politician in your ability to wriggle away from my questions. You never did answer if love is dangerous for you."  
  
* * *  
  
Red-haired, short, stocky and affable Constable Reg Farquarhar had been ringing doorbells and interviewing people all day in Saskatoon and its environs looking for someone who still knew Mary-Sue Muldoon. Or at least-- someone who could shed some light on her character or anything about her to help the investigation into the kidnappings in Chicago. Renfield Turnbull had been with him at the Depot when he'd been with the RCMP and a more dependable and resourceful officer he'd never met, so when Turnbull called the Saskatoon PD for his help he was only too willing.  
  
Farquarhar had talked with some of her foster parents and some of the people who had worked at group homes where she had been assigned by the court. He'd spoken with some foster brothers and sisters and her peers at group homes. He'd talked with some of her teachers and the administrators of some of her schools. Though no one as yet had current information on her, what he found about her as child was distressing enough.  
  
As her mother committed suicide when she was a baby and her father disappeared at the same time, she was moved from one foster home to another. Since she had no lasting ties to anyone, she was unable to form relationships as she grew. Pretty early in school she was saddled with the label emotionally disturbed, but to be more precise she had associative disorder. Then his informants described associative disorder, as it related to Mary-Sue.  
  
While Mary-Sue was a typical learner, even a bright one, she had a need to sabotage any healthy relationship that might have formed: with peers, foster parents, teachers, even the helping professionals who were assigned to her. She would fly into rages with seemingly no provocation. She stole and she lied and manipulated skillfully. When she and others were looking forward to an activity is when she might be hardest to deal with: she would melt down, totally and completely, destroying any enjoyment anyone would have had from it. She was so toxic, people didn't want to be around her. Yet she craved attention, positive or negative. When two of the cats were poisoned at a foster home, and then a teacher was beaten, she was sent to a group home and a school for emotionally disturbed kids. From the other girls there she learned cutting, another way to get attention, to know she was alive. She was nine years old. When she went to school, for she often did not, when she was awake at school, when she wasn't thrown out of the class because she was screaming at the teacher or her peers, or refusing to do her work, she did well. But that was rare. The cutting continued, and so did new self-destructive habits like alcohol and marijuana. She ran away when she was thirteen and no one in her file that he's interviewed yet had heard from her again.  
  
Her story made Constable Farquarhar want to spend more time with his own Little Brother. A younger boy, at least he still had chances, chances that Mary-Sue Muldoon never did.  
  
But why was she after the women in Benton Fraser's life? Another question Reg couldn't answer.  
  
* * *  
  
Turnbull couldn't understand it. Usually, when Benton Fraser had a case and he was working with either Detective Vecchio or Detective Kowalski, nothing would stop him until he'd solved it. But with this case, it was as if three of them had been caught in maple syrup. They couldn't move and even if they could, they had no direction. Francesca Vecchio and Inspector Margaret Thatcher had been kidnapped, and they needed to be found and the perpetrators put to justice, forthwith.  
  
Meanwhile, Turnbull had left the Consulate in the able hands of an office worker, while he had gone to canvass the neighborhood of the 27th precinct house. With one of their own missing, even if she was a civilian, one would think the neighborhood around the 27th had been canvassed by Chicago's finest, but it didn't seem so to Turnbull. So Turnbull canvassed the neighborhood himself. While none of the officers who were normally in the parking lot had been around to see anything, Mrs. Du Champs from across the street had seen a red Miata pulling away from the station house at a good clip, just after 3:00PM, when Oprah was just starting. Her television was next to the window so she could watch the neighborhood while she was watching television.  
  
Mr. Brown had been weeding his tomatoes in the community garden down the block from the 27th and had also seen a red Miata. He saw a brunette slumped over in the passenger seat.  
  
Eight- year old Danny Ryan who was home sick with bronchitis was looking out the window and he too had seen the red Miata, but he'd noticed it had Saskatchewan plates. He'd never heard of Saskatchewan before. Turnbull promised he'd come back to visit him and tell him all about the province. He called in the plates, RCW 139, and they were registered to Mary-Sue Muldoon.  
  
Turnbull had to find Inspector Thatcher and Francesca Vecchio, he had to find Mary-Sue Muldoon and he had to find out why Detectives Vecchio and Kowalski, and Constable Fraser were acting so uncharacteristically.  
  
Part 14 by Kali  
  
Too often people give short shrift to the importance that luck plays in their daily lives. This is especially relevant to the successful commission or resolution of a crime. Both cops and criminals get lucky and both have their bouts of bad luck as well. Interestingly enough, you'll rarely hear either of them acknowledge the good but they're more than willing to talk about the bad. This, however, was a day for luck to run amok, touching many people in different ways.  
  
So far, Mary-Sue was feeling pretty lucky. Everything had gone according to plan. She'd found her father's list of contacts in Chicago and started making calls and came up with Jimmy "The Prince" Liszt, a small time low-life who didn't want to stay small time. A snort escaped her as she thought about the man whose body now inhabited the basement of the old house along with Frannie and Meg. She wasn't sure but suspected that he'd given himself the moniker 'prince' as she'd found nothing particularly courtly about him. He was crude and rough but effective. It was a pity she had to kill him so early into the operation but he was about to blurt out her name and she needed to remain anonymous.  
  
The shooting, however, did put the fear of God in his partner. For a moment she toyed with the idea of taking him back to Canada with her. He was rather cute and seemed to thrive on taking orders which could be quite useful. However, she knew in her heart that he, too, would have to be eliminated. No one could know that she had traveled to Chicago to do a job - especially since the job was being done for a ghost.  
  
Inside the basement Frannie and Meg had remained vigilant, waiting for someone to come down the stairs. After a long while, though, their guard slipped as they eventually tired. Initially they were sure that it was only a matter of minutes before the door would open and one of their captors came down to check on them but then minutes turned to hours and they finally had to admit that they had no idea when anyone would even bother with them.  
  
They strained to hear the sounds that were coming from downstairs but couldn't really discern much. Someone was watching television and from the Frannie guessed it had to be Steve since the noises sounded like the Jerry Springer show.  
  
They heard the faint sound of a door being opened and closed, followed by the mincing footsteps of someone wearing high heels on hardwood floors. There was a conversation that was mostly drowned out by the noise of the television and then silence.  
  
Upstairs Mary-Sue and Steve shared a startled look as the doorbell rang. For the two days that they'd inhabited the old house, no one had paid them the slightest bit of attention. And since they didn't even legally inhabit it, Mary-Sue couldn't imagine who would be showing up on the porch now. She practically dragged Steve through the kitchen, picking up a roll of duct tape and handing it to him along the way before shoving him at the basement door.  
  
"Make sure our guests don't make any unnecessary noise," she hissed.  
  
The doorbell chimed once again.  
  
"Just a minute," she said in a loud voice.  
  
Outside Elaine Besbriss was worried. There were heavy drapes over the windows so she had no idea what waited for her on the other side of the door. The sound of a voice came through the heavy wood and leaded glass and she took a deep breath steeling herself for the ruse she was about to attempt. What Turnbull told her was enough to make her blood run cold. Though she wasn't particularly fond of either Frannie or Meg, the thought of someone using them to hurt people that she did care about made her very angry and she was happy to be able to help in some fashion.  
  
Mary-Sue opened the heavy wooden door but left the screen door closed.  
  
"Yes?" she asked.  
  
"Hi, I'm sorry to bother you," Elaine began, "But I'm trying to track down an old friend of mine and I've lost her address but I know she lived in this area. Could you tell me where Lori Campbell's house is?"  
  
"I'm sorry, but I'm new here and don't know any of the neighbors yet."  
  
"Oh, well, could I borrow your phone book and see if I can find her that way?"  
  
"Really, we just bought the place, haven't even really moved in yet and the phone company hasn't delivered our directories."  
  
Elaine tried to take in as much detail of the lay out of the house as she could but Mary-Sue was blocking most of her view. She sighed trying to keep her frustration in check.  
  
"Okay, well, thank you for your time," she said before turning to leave.  
  
She went to the house next door just to offer some plausibility to her story but no one was home there. In the process, she managed to get a better look at the back of the suspect property and noticed there was an exterior entrance to a basement. As she was leaving she saw a piece of paper on the ground under a window. It looked out of place on the well tended lawn so she went to pick it up. It had definitely degraded in the weather but one small part of a message was still visible. 'Help! FV'.  
  
A smile cut across her face as she walked back to the car and drove a few blocks away before stopping and calling the 27th precinct with the information she had. Once that call ended she phoned Turnbull at the consulate to let him know what she'd found as well.  
  
Lt. Welch was ecstatic over the news Elaine shared. A SWAT team was on standby and with a solid lead as to the hostages' whereabouts; he had a reason to deploy it. He also made arrangements to have Dewey, Huey, and Kowalski take Fraser and Vecchio to the scene once he knew it was secure.  
  
Mary-Sue stayed at the door and watched until Elaine's car was well out of site. She expected Steve to come back and give her a status report. When he didn't appear after nearly fifteen minutes, she pulled her gun out of the waistband of her jeans and hurried down the basement stairs to make sure that the situation was under control. The scene she discovered there did not please her. Meg and Frannie were sitting demurely with their hands behind them but Steve was sprawled on the concrete floor in front of the steps.  
  
"What the hell did you two do to him?" she demanded angrily.  
  
"Nothing!" Frannie insisted indignantly.  
  
"He tripped and fell," added Meg.  
  
"Yeah, I'm just sure he did."  
  
She checked to see that he had a pulse while Meg continued her defense.  
  
"Look, don't you think that if we'd had anything to do with this, we would have moved him to a less conspicuous spot?"  
  
While Steve was breathing shallowly, it was obvious that he was out cold which wasn't surprising considering the amount of blood that came from the gash in his head.  
  
"Well, at the very least you could have tried to keep him from bleeding to death."  
  
"Oh yeah, and how are we supposed to do that when we're all tied up?" Frannie retorted.  
  
Tied up? Mary-Sue hadn't ordered the women to be bound. She wanted them to be free when their champion showed up to rescue them. It would make the scene all that much more satisfying. She moved closer to Frannie to see what was going on.  
  
Meg fingered the metal bracket that she held behind her, patiently waiting for their captor to come into range. When she felt Mary-Sue was close enough she pulled it out and flung it at her in one smooth motion. Unfortunately, she hadn't calculated on Muldoon bending over at that very second and so she missed her target and the makeshift weapon flew to the far side of the room, clanging into the wall before it dropped noisily to the floor.  
  
"You stupid bitch!" Mary-Sue cried out. "No wonder the RCMP has such a bad reputation. You're all a bunch of morons."  
  
She raised her gun and aimed at Meg's chest, no longer caring about her mission or whether or not she got to see Fraser deliberate over his choice. She'd make the choice for him by killing both of the women. Just as she put her finger on the trigger the rickety exterior door to the basement shattered and a concussion grenade landed on the floor. The distraction was just enough to pull Mary-Sue' attention slightly off her target but she pulled the trigger anyway.  
  
The sound of the gunshot split the air and barely a second later a thundering boom filled the room as the grenade went off. Within a moment the smoke cleared enough for the SWAT team to rush into the room and survey the damage. The sight was not a pretty one. Three women were all knocked unconscious and one of them had a bullet wound to the shoulder. There was a man on the ground bleeding from the head as well as dead man under a sheet. The commander of the team came out of the basement door and gave his report to Lt. Welch who immediately called the 27th to have Fraser and Vecchio taken to Cook County hospital where the survivors would be taken. His second call was to the Canadian Consulate to alert Turnbull of the situation.  
  
Part 15 by The Moo  
  
In the days immediately following the rescue there was too much else going on for anyone to be paying very much attention to Fraser - for which the Mountie was just as glad. He knew he was the base cause of the crisis but, happily for him, there was far too much going on among the actual participants for anyone to recall that the women had been kidnapped for his benefit, in a manner of speaking.  
  
Elaine and Turnbull were feted beyond anything either one had ever experienced. In addition to the personal attention, written commendations were promised from the government of Canada and the city of Chicago.  
  
Fraser's days were busy as he continued to do the Inspector's work as well as his own and Turnbull's, the latter being too overcome with his hero status to be of any use at the Consulate. Fraser knew from his own experience the kind of disorientation that sudden notoriety can bring. He knew he could look forward to being acting Chief Liaison Officer for several more weeks while Thatcher recovered from her shoulder wound. He made a point of visiting her in the hospital only at times when he knew others would be there, avoiding any chance of having to deal with a private conversation between Thatcher and himself. Fortunately for Fraser her hospital room was full of well-wishers during visiting hours.  
  
It was also easy for him to avoid, in the initial excitement, having to be alone with Francesca. Her brother and the other Vecchios were a noisy buffer and for some time he had no trouble pretending he couldn't find a chance to talk to her alone.  
  
These two women's lives had been put in danger by his own father, to force Fraser to choose one as a mate. The Mountie fumed at his father in the privacy of his own thoughts. It was unconscionable. The act was so entirely unlike Sgt. Robert Fraser, who when alive would never think of putting a civilian at risk for his own personal ends, that Fraser had trouble believing that what his father had told him was the truth.  
  
And yet Mary-Sue Muldoon, when questioned, confirmed that a man matching Sgt Fraser's description and using the same name had indeed approached her and contracted her to carry out the kidnappings.  
  
There were other things that didn't make sense. Wouldn't Bob realize that if one of the women were killed, his son would be so overcome with guilt that he's be unable to sustain a healthy relationship with the other? The incident would always be a painful barrier to their happiness.  
  
Some important piece of this puzzle was missing and Fraser didn't feel he could really confront either of the two victimized women until he understood the situation better. And in moments when his honesty with himself was stronger than other times, he also admitted to himself that he really didn't want to face them at all, understanding or not understanding aside. The longer he could stall, the better.  
  
* * *  
  
One "heart-to-heart" discussion Fraser could not avoid was with Kowalski. The detective allowed his friend a couple of days before confronting him. He actually came to see Fraser in his office, allowing the Mountie no opportunity to escape.  
  
Fraser's protests that he was very busy, while true, did not deter Kowalski.  
  
"You're not wiggling out of it, Fraser. I can see you've been hiding since the girls got saved."  
  
"I haven't been hiding, Ray. I've been to every celebration, I've been to see the Inspector, the Vecchios, even visited Mary-Sue Muldoon in custody."  
  
"Hiding in plain view is the best kind of hiding, Fraser. But we have to finish what we started while we were staking out Heistman. You were all tied up inside over something and you kept trying to tell me about eagles so's I wouldn't bug you about it."  
  
"Does it occur to you, Ray, that I still don't want to be 'bugged about it'?"  
  
"And does it occur to you, Fraser, that I don't care what you want? I care what you need and you need to talk this out."  
  
Fraser couldn't fault his friend. He had good intentions but the Mountie was not yet ready to share. Not until he sorted out the incongruity of the situation in his own mind. He said as much to Kowalski and managed to get him out of the office on the pretext of an impending appointment.  
  
Ray was right of course, he told himself. He did need to talk it out but the person he needed to talk to had not made an appearance yet.  
  
* * *  
  
Another 'heart-to-heart' Fraser could not avoid was with his first friend in Chicago, Ray Vecchio. It was at the 27th that Vecchio cornered him and fairly dragged him into the familiar supply closet where they had had so many talks in the past.  
  
Fraser waited several minutes in the darkness for Vecchio to say something and was beginning to think that Ray had been struck dumb for some unknown reason when Vecchio finally said, very softly, "I . . .uh . . . don't want to say this in front of the other guys but . . .uh . . ."  
  
"Yes, Ray."  
  
"I'm sorry I hit you before. You understand I was very upset."  
  
"I understand, Ray."  
  
"Now it was right for me to hit you under the circumstances, don't get me wrong. I mean, I want to make it clear that any brother in my position . . ."  
  
"It's perfectly clear, Ray."  
  
"Well, good. Okay."  
  
There was another moment of uncomfortable silence between them, before Vecchio spoke up again.  
  
"Benny, now that it's all over I have to ask you: are you and Frannie going to be an item or not?"  
  
Fraser was telling the truth when he said "I don't think so, Ray. This whole thing as . . . I think . . . poisoned any chance I could have with happiness with either Francesca or the Inspector. I think you know I talk to my father sometimes."  
  
"Yeah, I suspected."  
  
"Ray, he claims he set this whole thing up, hired Mary-Sue Muldoon to abduct the women so that somehow I'd be forced to choose between them."  
  
"Get out! That doesn't sound like the guy you described to me. You know, super-Mountie."  
  
"No, it doesn't. But on the other hand, it's not like him to lie either. I just don't know what to make of the situation. But one thing I do know - it isn't making me feel particularly amorous towards anyone at the moment."  
  
"Frannie loves you," Vecchio said in the darkness, "And Ma wouldn't mind having you for a son."  
  
"I know. And I wouldn't mind having you for a brother, Ray."  
  
"You already got that, Benny. Never, ever doubt that. Anything I can do to help you figure this thing out? I could try to get my dad to ask your dad. He told me he met up with him."  
  
"Who told you he met up with whom?" Fraser asked, puzzled.  
  
"My pop. He talks to your pop. You're not the only one that sees ghosts, Benny."  
  
"I'll be damned!"  
  
"Naw. If my pop wasn't, no way either of us would be," Vecchio opined.   
  
"Okay, you're off the hook for now but as soon as you figure out who's really behind all this - promise you'll let me know."  
  
Fraser promised and the two emerged together from the closet.  
  
* * *  
  
Mary-Sue Muldoon remained in custody in a Chicago prison while the formal charges were being prepared, and Fraser found himself drawn to visiting her. She was always brusque, even rude with him but never refused to come to the visiting area to see him when the guards told her he had arrived.  
  
On his seventh visit to her, as they faced each other through the glass barrier, she sneered at him through the telephone connecting them, "I don't get many visitors, so even you're better than nothing. At least you're easy on the eyes. Explains why everybody seems to be wetting their pants over you."  
  
"Not everybody," Fraser responded, involuntarily adding "My impression is that your own pants are fairly dry."  
  
"Then just why is it you keep coming here, pal? You got the hots for me?"  
  
While the comment was meant to be scornful, it struck Fraser as an interesting question on a literal level. As much as was possible in the hard wooden chair, he leaned back, placing the telephone receiver down on the counter in front of him. He drew a breath and pondered, even as she sat glaring at him. Then he leaned forward again, picked up the receiver and spoke to her.  
  
"That's less unlikely than you think, Ms. Muldoon. The only other woman I've ever really loved was a murderess. She tried to frame me for one of her killings."  
  
"Sounds like my kind of people."  
  
"I believe she is," Fraser replied blandly, "But you and I have even more in common than Victoria and I had."  
  
"What did you have in common?" Mary-Sue Muldoon asked, now too curious to be rude.  
  
Fraser recited an abridged version of his adventures with Victoria Metcalfe.  
  
"Definitely my kind of people," was the woman's reaction, when he was done, "And your kind of people too, I think. You like your women dirty, don't you? Now, you and I would be an interesting couple. My father murdered your mother. You have to admit that has some spice."  
  
Fraser didn't answer. It was no more absurd a concept than the situation he was trying to figure out. He let her continue without interrupting.  
  
Muldoon went on "You waited ten years for this Victoria to get out and look you up. I could get out in ten years if I suck up to all the counselors and social workers and whatever dorks. Wanna wait for me to get out? Something tells me you'll still be available."  
  
"Oh, why do you think so?" Fraser was more intrigued than shocked.  
  
"You just admitted it yourself, Victoria's the only woman you ever loved. Not either of those other two bitches."  
  
Fraser was astounded. He hadn't realized he had phrased it quite that way.  
  
"You look pale all of a sudden," Muldoon observed. "Like somebody just plugged you."  
  
A guard interrupted them, touching Muldoon on the shoulder. She started and then gave Fraser a rueful smile, her first smile since he had begun visiting her.  
  
"Just so that we're clear - I'm not interested in getting serious. Maybe you know my background."  
  
Fraser nodded. He did indeed know.  
  
"Everybody's got me figured out as not able to form relationships. But - who knows - we could have some fun together in the future. Your mother - my father - kind of funky for us to get together, don't you think?"  
  
Fraser was saved from commenting on whether such an idea was funky or anything else by the guard beside her who barked "Time's up, Muldoon. Say 'bye' to your boyfriend."  
  
Muldoon shrugged. Then, mischievously, she said "Bye, boyfriend" into the receiver, replace it and then waggled her fingers at Fraser as she moved off with the guard.  
  
Fraser remained sitting, stricken by what had just passed between them. Thanks to Mary-Sue Muldoon he had come to realize why a choice between the Inspector and Ray's sister had always been so difficult. In truth, he loved neither. It had taken that moment of dropping his guard with Mary-Sue Muldoon for him to see this. There really was something to be said for interacting with criminals. There was, with Mary-Sue, with her father before her, with Victoria, with Zuko, with Warfield, a refreshing directness in the exchanges he'd had with these people. He could, of course, be happy to forgo the beatings, betrayals and murder attempts, and retain just the directness but such was not the way the world worked.  
  
Fraser wasn't aware that he had been slumped in the chair, any more than he was aware that, as he pondered, he was slowly straightening up. A different guard approached and told him he should be on his way. As the Mountie rose from the hard chair, he felt as though layers of restricting chains were dropping from his body. I don't love either one, he thought, as he made his way through the prison towards the exit. I'm free of them, he thought, as he went through the prison's outer gate and out into the street.  
  
* * *  
  
Was it co-incidence that Bob Fraser came to see his son the same night following his mind-altering visit with Mary-Sue Muldoon? Fraser didn't think so. He remained lying on his bed, on his back and arms crossed behind his head, and faced the image of his father.  
  
"So, now you finally show up," Fraser fairly spat out the words, "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"  
  
Fraser didn't get the reaction he expected. Bob Fraser only looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean, son?"  
  
"Dad, you nearly got those women killed! Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"  
  
Bob settled onto a chair beside his son's bed and looked thoughtful. "There's worse things than getting killed, son. I got killed. Your mother got killed. You'll be, too, one day."  
  
Fraser was temporarily distracted by this last revelation. "Really? When? How?"  
  
Bob Fraser cringed in embarrassment. "Uh oh. I wasn't supposed to let that slip. Forget I said anything, Benton."  
  
"But Dad . . ."  
  
"It's classified, Son. And your mother will have my head for letting even that much slip. Well, she would if we actually had heads. My point is everybody dies one way or another. Once you've been through it you don't take it so seriously."  
  
"Dad . . ."  
  
"Now what are you in a snit about anyway? What's this about women? Have you finally come to your senses and decided to settle down and give me some grandchildren?"  
  
Fraser sat up in bed. "Dad, I need you to apologize to a whole lot of people for the trouble you've caused. There's one man dead, the Inspector injured, Ray and Ray upset, not to mention Ray's family who . . ."  
  
"Hold up, son. You're babbling. Calm down and fill me in."  
  
Fraser was only aghast. How could Dad pretend he didn't know anything?  
  
Then, it seemed to Fraser that his father had suddenly divided into two identical images - like some absurd amoeba splitting into two beings. Fraser gaped, speechless. There were two Bob Frasers standing there looking at him.  
  
"Now what? What are you staring at?" the original Bob demanded, oblivious to his double.  
  
Fraser only pointed, to the spot a little to the right of the speaking Bob where the second, silent Bob stood. The speaking Bob looked where his son pointed.  
  
"What the blazes!" Bob cried out.  
  
"Hey, Bob. Hey, Benton," said the second Bob Fraser but with an evil smirk that the original Bob would never have on his face. "So nice to find the two of you together. Nice little reunion except we're short the women. My little girl and your missus. Ought to get them here and have a nice reunion."  
  
"Your little girl," Fraser repeated, not comprehending.  
  
"A little slow on the uptake aren't we, Benton. Maybe your brain only works when you're on a Ferris wheel. Okay, let me dummy this down for you two."  
  
The other Bob took a step away from the original, spread his arms and took a wide, theatrical bow. "Look at me, boys. This is what I looked like when went to my little girl and told her how I wanted her to settle the score with the Fraser clan."  
  
He straightened up and began to shimmer slowly, his image dissolved and he reformed as Holloway Muldoon.  
  
"You died a few months ago. I remember," said Fraser, barely above a whisper, "You impersonated my father!"  
  
"And had a great time doing it," confirmed Muldoon.  
  
"And deceived your own child? But why? Wouldn't she have helped you if you'd asked? Not that I'm condoning any of this, but just as a matter of principle. You're her father."  
  
"No she wouldn't. My Mary-Sue isn't loyal to me like you are to your old man. Which, by the way, is another reason I still hate both you."  
  
"Mr. Muldoon, I think your daughter has good reason to feel that way. If you had been a better father to her, she might not have grown up as dysfunction as she has become," lectured the younger Mountie.  
  
"Just bugs my ass that I didn't get a chance to see her pop both your girlfriends. I was counting on that. She let me down. So long, suckers. Keep your eyes out, I'm going to get even some other way."  
  
Fraser said. "Then I suggest you find a way to deal with me directly. I'm planning to terminate all romantic attachment with both these women, so there's no reason for you to try to harm them again."  
  
"Fine. Don't think you've seen the last of me."  
  
"At least come to me next time as yourself, if you have the courage," said Fraser.  
  
The image of Holloway Muldoon muttered a curse and then vanished, leaving Fraser and his father to stare at the empty space where he had just stood.  
  
Fraser leaned back in his bed again with a snort. "Well, that explains that."  
  
"Not to me it doesn't," declared Bob, "I haven't a clue what just happened."  
  
Fraser retold the story. It took 15 episodes to tell and left the ghostly Mountie amazed.  
  
"But you've told him you're not hooking up with either of these lovely ladies," Bob pointed out when the tale was done. "What about my grandchildren?"  
  
"Eagles fly, Dad."  
  
"Don't get your drift, son."  
  
"Eagles fly. They soar and swoop and ride the winds. All by themselves. And they're happy that way. Free to fly and frolic in the sky all alone. Dad, the next time I see the Inspector and Francesca I'm going to explain to them that I'm too traumatized to love either one of them. End of story. And I'm going to spend a little time enjoying, really enjoying, flying alone. And who knows what kind of lady eagles are out there waiting for me."  
  
End.  
  


  
 

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End Eagles Fly - A Round Robin For Lys by New Ride Forever 

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